Where once the world narrowed into naught but gray dust and desolation, the gods called for life. Wielding the elements of fire and light, dark and wind, earth and water, spark and time, they have created Helovia. The realm is set within the mythical globe of Loorien, a planet rich with all variety of creatures and blessed with all manner of magic. Originally populated by nomadic, tribal characters, they've since grown into massive empires saturated with culture and history. Separated into four distinct segments of Helovia, called "The Regions," each band of horse strong enough and capable enough, took up the power and responsibility of leadership. Unicorns, old, wise and mysterious, took to the north, hidden in forests of mists and shadows and rarely making themselves known beyond their cliffs of the World's Edge. Equines, vast, organized and militaristic, split into two, one group went north to the Windtossed Foothills and the other group went south to the Dragon's Throat. Pegasus remained nomadic, making their homes in various parts of The Wilds in a migratory manner. For many generations, the land was peaceful and calm, but peace was never the way of the gods. With a clash of argument, war and bloodshed massacred Helovia, and in the aftermath, the realm was eerily quiet. Now, as newcomers sweep into this land, they are met with the lingering bitterness of the gods and the struggle to reclaim what was lost. Nothing remains safe or certain while sorcerers and soldiers alike brood and bide their time for revenge, honor and glory.

Site Wide Plots

Kaos :: The Beginning of the End☼ - 6/2017 - Kaos placed Helovia in a time-bubble for a short period of time, but the Helovian gods are fighting back. But Kaos is powerful- far more powerful than anyone thought. This may be the beginning of the end of Helovia as we know it.

Endless Night :: Broken Magic Plot☼ - 8/30/13 - The earth god has returned and is walking across Helovia to heal the land. Every area can now be considered lush and prosperous, but the sun has still not risen.

☼ - 7/19/13 - The moon has risen in the sky, heralding the return of the Goddess of the moon. Lamp trees which light the paths have grown brighter, moon flowers which grow in dark places have begun to grow and prosper and the world is brighter, filled with a new hope.

Endless Night :: Dead Magic Plot☼ - 6/22/13 - The gods of Helovia, in order to protect the world, have disappeared into the rift, leaving the world sunless, moonless and magic-less in their absence. Only the herdlands have a source of light, but lamp-trees with glowing leaves and branches sporadically line the popular roads and paths from place to place.

Doppleganger Plot☼ - 6/20/13 - The God of Time is still struggling to close the rift though which the dopplegangers have come. He has requested that his brothers and sister assist in closing this hole, but without knowing why it opened, the task is proving difficult. Magic still remains faulty and hard to control, but the herdlands continue to be places of refuge for those who are fortunate enough to call these lands home.

ORANGEMOON cools off the lands with a a viscious force. Colder than normal, a sign of things to come during Frostfall, Helovia is bathed in a rich tropical lushness - albiet a cold one. The coastlines of the Dragon's Throat are pelted constantly by tidal waves, and the desert climate is humid but chilly. Ice begins to form early in the Aurora Basin leaving the winding trails slick and dangerous. The mists of the World's Edge coat everything in a glistening crystalline shine which encourages mould to grow everywhere. The Spectral Marsh is the only area which remains fertile, blissfully temperature and lush.

Cotm

Character of the Month for
June, 2017

WEAVER, Corporal of the Aurora Basin, is a relatively recent addition to Helovia and has taken it by storm. Branded with the seal of Death on her chest, intrigue and interest follow both her past and present. Though she is assuredly beautiful, her sometimes sharp personality reveals that there is more to this uni-peg hybrid than meets the eye. Proving herself able on the battlefield in the Basin’s warrior ranks, we can’t wait to see her test her mettle against the looming Kaos happenings! Congratulations!

Helovia RPG was created by Tamme and Blu and coded by Tamme also known as Schwartze. All coding, palettes and imagery are copyrighted to the website and are not for use outside of Helovia. Thank you to our ServerMaster for hosting Helovia. A special thanks goes to Neo for all of her coding help and fixing Tamme's errors, Boom, for her loyal service and creation of the Time God, and to Ali for her consistent contributions and dedication.

Oh, what she wouldn’t give for a hot spring in this godsforsaken wilderness.

Passing the murky pond in the Secret Grove, Sheba considered diving in for what seemed like the umpteenth time. And once again, remembering the frigid temperature and who knew how many dead plants lay rotting in the brown water, she sighed, thought better of it, and resumed her pacing. The pond wasn’t really that appealing in the first place, she knew, but ever since she’d been stranded out here and suddenly had all sorts of neighbors traipsing through her temporary home, she was desperate for a bath. She had avoided her own reflection for three years now, but now that she no longer had the darkness of the Heart Caves for cover, everyone else could see the havoc that Fireball had wreaked on her body. Not only was she devastatingly ancient, but her time underground had left her rather the worse for wear. Her hair had grown long and matted, the once-meticulously cultivated braids loosened and buried deep within the knots and tangles. Though her glass baubles remained, alongside of them rested twigs and leaves and all manner of things—she didn’t even want to know what she must have picked up sleeping on the ground. Her coat remained white under the smears of mud and dirt on her belly, but where it once was smooth and glossy, now it stretched thin over jutting bones. Patches had fallen out, and the dark skin beneath was dry and scabbed in places from lack of exposure to light in the caves. She was in a sorry state, she knew. But it was either look like a hag or freeze to death looking like one, because she certainly couldn’t soak herself to the bone in this weather.

So instead, she was left to pick forlornly at the twigs that clung stubbornly to her hair and to stare at the muddy little pond, waiting out the days until she could make the journey back to her caves and blissful solitude. If her appearance deteriorated all the more in the meantime…well, perhaps at least it would be enough the scare off the passerby, and she could finally have some peace amongst the willows.

The Secret Grove had first become a favorite grazing spot for the old man several months ago, when the trees had been lush and green, and the sunlight had warmed his threadbare coat. Now, with a layer of snow covering, suffocating, its carpet of grass and clover and the trees just brittle skeletons jutting out of the ground, he shambles back to it with a begrudgingly loyalty. The promise of a stomach full of good tasting things, rather than the stringy, dried out plains grass of the Basin and Steppe keeps him coming back despite his hatred of all things cold, though it doesn't stop him from complaining.

An endless chain of murmured curses and expletives trickles from his mouth as he paws away the snow from a semicircle in front of him, grazing it down to the brown and withered stems before moving on to a new spot. He's sure that he's wasting more energy just finding the grass than he can possibly replace by eating it, but the sweetness of the thick, wide blades placates the worst of his temper and keeps him grinding away at the task despite himself.

His companion, still jealous and wounded over the attention showered on the blacks son, sits pouting inside the discolored wool of his scarf, pointedly ignoring his bonded for all of his cursing and jostling. It's by some miracle of natures bullshit then that the python pushes his little nose out of the folds of insulating material - desperate to breathe fresh air instead of the rancid miasma he's choked down all morning - just in time to see a pocket of warmth large enough to be another horse on the other side of the sheltered clearing. He flicks his tongue to be sure, tasting the proof of his thermal mapping, and then mentally prods the old man with his findings. He doesn't want to talk to the old bastard, but he doesn't want him to be ambushed either.

The stallion lifts his head, squinting in the glare of sunlight on snow, but the snake refuses to be of any further assistance, instead retreating back to the safety of his wool hammock, shoving the dead leaf, gold chain, and various other bits and pieces of junk out of his way. "Fine then." The black huffs, traipsing across the meadow just to see if it is something vicious and hungry that the petulant young serpent might have saved him from, but the mess of grime and decrepitude he encounters is anything but frightening. Oddly, he starts to laugh on catching sight of her - he thinks it's a her anyway - the sound gurgling out of his throat in surprised bursts.

"Is this the one where I meet myself as a woman and we fuck ourselves? I'd always thought it would be the ideal version of she-me," He eyes the mare, comparing his jutting ribs to hers, the matted and dirty coats, the tangled mane versus knotted beard. They're a matched pair in every way aside from gender and color. She even looks old like him, though maybe a few years his younger. He shrugs, still smiling in amusement. "Ah well, who doesn't love a dirty fuck now and then anyway?"

She’d had her back to the pond, tucked in amongst the willows as she’d tried in vain to groom herself, and the harsh laughter caught her off guard. At first, she didn’t even recognize the hacking sound for what it was—it was only when she spun around that she saw the twisted amusement on the intruder’s face. “Is this the one where I meet myself as a woman,” he gasped through the wheezing chuckles, “and we fuck ourselves?”Such a charming introduction.

It took all of her willpower not to pin her ears, if only to spite him. He wouldn’t get a rise out of her, she told herself, not that easily. Disdainfully, she took him in, the corners of her mouth turned down as she noted the emaciated, mud-colored body, the scruffy fur, the dirty scarf…the only thing about him that wasn’t downright decrepit were his eyes, which sparkled a bright green from the sunken depths of his skull. He was old and thin, with the air of a vagabond—truly, she could smell him from where she stood.

“Well, if it isn’t Prince Charming,” Sheba replied, cloudy eyes gone steely. “I’m sorry darling, but it seems like you’re a few years too late,” she remarked drily. “I’m afraid that your princess has rather let herself go, waiting for you.” The ivory brow furrowed in exaggerated concern. “But where are my manners,” she sighed, “You must be tired from such a long journey, and in need of refreshment. Why don’t you,” she went on, voice hardening, “go jump in the pond.”

OOC: short reply is short, but I have a feeling that she’ll be chock full of things to say as this goes on Cx

Most often his crudeness and vulgarity are met with disgusted offense or astonished disbelief, a negative response by any measure, but the battered old nag pushes back with her own brand of surliness and sarcasm, the tone and cut of her voice drawing both of the stallions ears forward in a rare display of nicety from his sour features. He likes her immediately, and when her wicked tongue goes on to lash him further he grins appreciatively at her humor.

"You'd like to see me all glimmering and wet wouldn't you? It'd almost be worth it if you promised to warm me up after. I hear skin on skin is the best way to transfer heat." One gleaming green eye winks suggestively before skimming down the sides and thighs of the mare. She's not bad looking, despite her state, but those razor edged hip bones would probably impale him instead of feeling full and solid against his own. He grins even wider. "True love is blind anyway, or so they say. Don't bother primping for little ol' me. I take what I can get." Another wolfish grin, this one sharper than the last, a slight emphasis placed on the word take.

He steps closer to the mare, reaching out toward a stick lodged in her snaggle of mane. Strom noses his tiny head out of the folds of his scarf, stirred by the not-so-undertones of the conversation. He's unlikely to ever find another python of his type to pair with, but the increasing escapades of his bonded are almost as fulfilling as he imagines the actual act to be, having never performed it himself. His tiny forked tongue races in and out, tasting the mixed odors of horse and filth around him, confused by the lack of physical excitement behind the stallions mental elation.

Some pleasures aren't physical, the black tries to explain, much to the snakes disappointment, so he adds that it doesn't mean it won't become physical, which seems to brighten the companions spirits some while simultaneously making the stallion wonder what ill effects his bonding with the snake has truly had on his once innocent soul, but then again, snakes aren't known for their moral uprightness. 'Kettle.' Comes the silent reply as the python slips back into the safety and warmth of the wool garment tied at his bondeds neck. He doesn't believe in heaven or hell, though they're rather large concepts for a snake, and mostly because the stallion doesn't either, so lamentations about judgements and souls mean little to him.

Instead of getting the hint and leaving her be, the mangy stranger’s ears went forward at her barbed suggestion. No! she cried internally, exasperated by his amusement. Her wit, to be fair, was sparkling, but she had purposely been less-than-subtle about her feelings on the matter of company. However, it seemed that the old man was denser than she had thought or more persistent than she had given him credit for, because he still wasn’t going anywhere.

And that wasn’t the worst of it: the bastard had the audacity to break into a grin. She wanted to shudder at the sight of his smile, for unsurprisingly she found it less than warm. There was a wolfish quality to it that didn’t sit well with her…though to be fair, most smiles boded ill with her these days anyway. Silently, she vowed to make it her personal mission to wipe the smirk off of his smug face—even if that meant more cutting repartee.

But he beat her to the punch with his next comment. As it turned out, Prince Charming did know how to make a girl’s stomach swoop. On a scale of butterflies to nausea, the symptoms definitely pointed towards the latter, but she got the feeling that either way was just all right with him. Pointedly ignoring the hungry up and down gaze, she coughed delicately and considered her next move. Perhaps if he hadn't taken the hint before, she would try speaking to him in a language he'd understand.

“To admit that would be unladylike,” she returned, eyes downcast demurely. “But…” Her gaze shot upwards and locked on the long, thin face. “…perhaps it would be truthful. A moral dilemma, indeed.” She flashed him a wicked grin of her own, the expression gone before it had fully materialized on her face. “I find it ever so difficult to navigate between the virtues sometimes,” the crone fretted, her tone a low whine. The stallion stepped closer, and she steeled herself to stand still. “And so sometimes I think,” she went on, raising her head to catch his eye, “…why not just do away with them altogether?” The tangled tail lashed against her side suggestively, and she took her own step towards the origin of the stench. The twig that he had reached for slipped from her mane.

“Mais!” she interjected lightly, regarding the tangled copper hair that now hung sickeningly close to her, “I confess I am not so forgiving as you, monsieur. I like my men well-groomed,” she informed him, stepping forwards again so that their bodies would be roughly parallel should he not shy. Next to him, he dwarfed her. She tried not to think about it. “Not that it can’t be remedied,” Sheba remarked, stretching her horn towards a knot in the belly fur, as if wielding a comb. “May I?”

"speech"

OOC: yes Sheba, let's just take it from 0 to 100 why don't we? also switching tables so hopefully the dialogue is easier to read!

The mares sarcasm and wit are flawlessly executed, her humor dark and engaging, digging at the old stallion with exaggerated, feigned politeness. Ears forward, he hangs on every jeer and detail like a master craftsman surveying some new acquaintance for raw skill, for potential, for competition. His grin only spreads with each new comment, his emerald eyes lighting from their perpetual shadow, dismissing the dirt and the tangles, the scowls and the well-dressed hostility, seeing only a creature with which he has some commonality. It’s a gift so rare that he startles to find himself suddenly at the mares mercy, his guard disengaged by the moment of - joy?

The ivory of her horn, discolored somewhat by either age or neglect, maybe even naturally – the way the soft off white and peach of its spiral matches her hooves - hovers near the underside of his barrel, only its polish dull and unimpressive. He has no doubt of the weapons sharpness. “My lady,” He shudders, worried for her closeness and for the unspoken intention in her posture. “You are too kind.” He falls into genuine manners as a means of placating, gingerly stepping away from the proffered blade lest its wielder decide to disembowel him, or worse, desex.

His mind devolves to swearing and sputtering, furious that he’s allowed himself to be caught in this moment of vulnerability, given the mare an easy opportunity to wound him with far more than words. All she’d have to do is make a sudden up-swing with that horn, but he dearly hopes that she won’t. His white rimmed eyes and back turned ears beg for leniency while his mouth works to delay her long enough to create some distance between them again. “Surely a maiden like you will have retainers for such things. Combs, salves...” He trails off, voice pinching into something small and strained. Don't hurt me, it wordlessly pleads, all pride forgotten in the face of danger.

He neither laughed in her face nor succumbed to her purr; instead, the old stallion grew suddenly civil, his tone less sarcastic than truly deferential. From her position, she could not see his face, but she could sense from the crackle of energy in the air that something between them had somehow shifted. A small step away and she lost her nerve (did she ever really have it to begin with? a little voice asked, but she was already brushing it away), for when was the last time that any had feared her? Not that the old man was exactly trembling, but he seemed to have gulped down a healthy dose of respect at the sight of her proffered horn. And while it would have been satisfying as anything to castrate him, she was both surprised at herself (for the mere inclination) and at him (for believing she would). She laughed, despite herself, a short, mirthless chuckle, and while she did not yield her position near him, she did not retreat either.

“I see we understand each other then,” the old mare murmured, eyeing her companion with a sharper curiosity, shedding the honeyed tones and offering him a grim smile. When he continued the joke, perhaps to lighten the mood, she shrugged and indulged him.

“Broken, and dried up long ago,” the crone replied, with a glint of something indecipherable in her eyes and a wan smirk; then, “But aren’t those meant to be the bridegroom’s gifts, anyway? How do you propose to make it up to me?”

And while it may all be just banter, or two wary strangers trading subtleties for safety, she did wonder: would he offer anything?

To his enormous relief, the mare doesn’t impale him or his precious genitals (also enormous). She holds her position, but she seems to lighten somewhat, laughing hollowly and giving the old stallion opportunity enough to skitter away from the outstretched tip of her horn, though it stays ominously brandished toward him. Ears tilted back in distrust, he pivots to face her.

Who is this crone to threaten him, he wonders, his temper trying desperately to catch and burst to life, anger and offense being his habitual defense to everything, and why are Helovians so fucking touchy about everything? He’s done no harm in teasing her, he argues to no one in particular. He may have even helped her by removing the twig from her mane - How would she have gotten it herself? - yet somehow shish kebabing his balls seems like an appropriate reply? ‘Sheesk.’ His companion sniggers from the garment at his chest, delighted to acquire a new phrase (even unpronounceable) that rivals the hilarity of pots and kettles. Unaware of this inner dialogue, the mare smiles at him, her feelings unreadable from the mild expression, and the stallion cocks his head in confusion.

There’s nothing overtly threatening about her, certainly not in the threadbare and disheveled state of herself - ‘Kettle!’ His companion jumps to assert, never missing an opportunity - but now, even distanced somewhat from the panic of impending injury, his hackles are raised and the old black just can’t see the humor in their game any more, hearing an edge of hostility where maybe none is intended. So he hesitates, briefly wondering if the inquiry is actually a demand - A robbery? - before yielding to the prospect of revenge through banter.

"A gift fit for such a gentlewoman?" He eyes the mare, as if seriously appraising. "I may have just the thing." With a wink his whiskered nose dips into the stained wool of the scarf around his neck, brushing aside trinkets and baubles, fumbling over and around his companion in search of something specific.

When he emerges again it's with a quick movement of the head and neck, not so much a flourish as a hurried toss, trying to over-hand the item onto the shaft of the mares threatening horn. He lunges away then, a mean-spirited grin seeping across his face in anticipation of her reaction. The item he's gifted her is not of gold or silver, but of thin, dirty string and a wrinkled, dead leaf which may or may not also be sweaty and soiled. "Perfect!" He laughs, hooves still dancing to keep him out of stabbing range.

"Alby talks"'Strom talks'
OOC // Alby has given @Sheba :: [ Item: Dead leaf | A dead leaf on a string. ] You may do with it what you wish! <3

"A gift fit for such a gentlewoman?” the ragged stallion asked, with an intonation so subtle that she nearly second-guessed what must have been sarcasm. The bright green eyes looked her over, but even as she resisted the urge to flinch, staring steadily back at him in all of her shamefully decrepit glory, there was no disdain in them—only the smallest of twinkles, that, like the ambiguity of his tone, was gone before she had fully realized it was there. He reached into his pouch and instantly had her attention, her selfish mind both surprised and thrilled all at once by the action. While she did not crane her neck, her gaze searched greedily for the trinket he offered as she turned the possibilities over in her head. She did not know what the old man might possess that she could possibly want (after all, he didn’t look like the jewelry-collecting type), but the opportunity of extortion was a thrilling thing in itself.

Finally, the dark muzzle emerged, clutching something that she could not see. He did not offer an explanation, merely extended it to her, and she could barely contain her delight until--

A leaf?! she realized, seeing the trick for what it was too late; he was already scrambling away again, out of reach of her swiping horn and stormy expression. She had to hand it to him, it had been well-played, using her own desire against her like that. Perhaps the man was cleverer than she had given him credit for.

Yet, aside from the movement of her horn and the fleeting display of aggravation, Sheba reined in her temper. The stranger had just taught her not to underestimate him, and she wouldn’t make the same mistake again. Instead, she grasped at the last remnants of the joke, eying the paper-dry leaf that had fluttered to the ground at her hooves. “So you’ve lost your fortune as well as your looks, then,” she commented with the trace of a pout. “Pity I’m not the romantic type who’ll fall for that sort of prince. I’m in it all for the castle and the crown jewels,” she finished, raising a brow. Yet still, she bent, not taking her eyes off of him, to scoop up the leaf. After all, it was hers now, and she wondered if perhaps more value to the gift than met the eye—why else should he carry such a silly thing around?

He’s already won, the proof of his triumph illustrated by the frustrated swing of the mares horn as she grasps his trickery - too late - and tries to cover the motion with an exaggerated stoop to retrieve the worthless token, her pride clearly wounded despite the diversion. Humor and a flush of victory permeate the stallions mind like an intoxicating high. "I assure you,” He grins wildly, unruly mouth living up to its own notorious standards of lewdness and indiscretion. "The crown jewels are perfectly intact." At this he straightens himself, stretching out and arching his thin neck as if posing for some scholarly review, his cracked and chipping hooves placed just so to provide the most favorable view of his masculine endowments. Staring with unabashed mischief, he rocks his hips, swaying the greasy, unkempt curtain of auburn hair running along his abdomen for even greater effect.

"Great black opals of unmatched quality and size." He proclaims, "Not an experience easily forgotten, but you’ve quite the temper on you for a princess.” The stallion shakes his head, tsk-tsking at the mare like a disappointed parent. "I’m afraid you’ll have to get a handle on that sort of thing before you’re allowed anywhere near such priceless artifacts." He steps forward, resuming a more relaxed outline, though careful still of the mares threatening reach, pointedly swinging his hindquarters away from her. "Wouldn’t want any accidents now would we?” Still openly watching the mares every movement, he shuffles backward, grinning and nodding as if politely excusing himself, though the suggestive rocking of his hips and the tongue that darts out to slide across his still grinning lips shatters any illusion of sincerity.